


Arcane Horizon

by yarcenahs



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Use, Golden Age of Piracy, M/M, Sex, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-10 03:08:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11118648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarcenahs/pseuds/yarcenahs
Summary: The Golden Age of Piracy is at its peak in the West Indies. New Providence Island has molded into the backdrop for the Caribbean's most feared pirates. For the civilized world, the threat of the expansion of piracy has become a nightmarish reality. Yet when several pirate ships begin to disappear, Nassau's most recognizable names must join forces to eradicate a seemingly invisible enemy before the Pirate Republic crumbles.(Major Black Sails characters begin appearing after a couple chapters. The first few entries are meant to create the setting and backstory.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alas, my unfathomable interest in the history of piracy and deep appreciation for Black Sails has brought me here. This is a concept I've kept in the back of my mind for a few years. Of course, this will include several other characters not seen on the show. Many are historical figures that helped shape the Golden Age of Piracy into one of the Caribbean's most infamous periods. Many of the names of which you are familiar with will not be present in the first chapter, maybe a few after that. The opening sections will consist of backstory and the development of setting. Critique is encouraged and very much appreciated.

** Chapter I **

**A Desperate Motion**

 

It was uncharacteristic for the sea to present such a calm demeanor to rival the flatness of glass. It was uncharacteristic for the night sky to project every star possible that could be seen from the earth. It was even more uncharacteristic for _The Great White_ to float in such an idle position for a remarkably long period of time. A blonde, rough-featured man with a gleaming scar that ran down the right side of his face was observing god-knows-what through a cracked spyglass that he dropped when he heard the first cannon fire about ten minutes ago. The man was more than likely the captain of the vessel, as the rest of the crew lay quiet in the hull whilst the quartermaster, a seasoned sailor in his own regard, squatted at the captain’s side. The blonde captain focused his sight further until he could make out the starboard side of what appeared to be a fairly small hull that presented a fair-sized mast as the fog began to slowly lift from the watery floor. The ship’s crew was boarding another craft (a buccaneer ship no less) that was around the same amount of leagues north of _The Great White_ ’s position. The blonde captain could not see what was occurring on the other side even when he stood, his only evidence were the cries of several men coming from beyond the attacking ship’s port side. After a few moments, the attacking ship's crew boarded the seized target and quickly left the blonde captain’s sight.

Thomas Johnson, the captain of  _The Great White_ , was revered in Nassau for his uncanny ability to practically sneak up on target vessels unseen until it was all but too late for the potential prize to escape. Yet what he just witnessed was in an entirely different class of its own. The sea was virtually a glass surface on this warm mid-June evening, and yet the ripple marks Johnson had observed minutes prior to the adjacent vessel's destruction indicated that only one ship was within reasonable distance from _The Great White_. How then, did the assailants manage to sneak by without showing any signs of their presence?

 _How in the fuck..._  

“Damned cowards, if I am correct that is the third attack this week from the same vessel,” stammered the frustrated captain.

Thomas Johnson gulped down another pint of rum and stamped about onboard whilst swearing pervasively as he went. Thomas stood well over six feet in height with a more than intimidating composition. The scars made sure of that, as well as the brown, nearly black eyes he bore. Only a year to this day a Nassau pirate and already he was quickly and almost effortlessly compiling a reputation among the Caribbean waters to rival that of Captain Flint.

His plunder ranged from the standard pieces of eight to the rare doubloons that had once been hauled by some of the greatest conquest ships in the sea. Ambitious as Thomas Johnson was, even a surplus of wealth that gave him enough for more than a few retirements was not enough to sate him. An unceasing wave of wealth had been in his sights since the day he first learned of the greats he now had the privilege to know personally. Bartholomew Roberts and Henry Morgan were the first, much as the same to just about every other elite pirate that sailed these waters, great pioneers of robbing by means of the sea that Thomas had heard of over two decades ago.

* * *

 

For a time, Thomas, who had lived in Charlestown, South Carolina, had almost given up the blasphemous hope that he would one day find himself among the likes of Roberts and Morgan. Then, almost on cue, his dark ambitions had been rekindled once his father, a merchant sailor of Charlestown, had decided to move his estate to Havana, Cuba in 1680.

This, as you would expect, gave a five-year-old child unprecedented outlets to the ways of piracy. Nearly every day he would hear news of nearby sacking, and usually, monetary loss and siege were the hot topics of discussion. Thomas, young and wretchedly stupid, decided that after hearing of such exhilarating affairs, nothing short of his father perhaps would stop him from dedicating his life to that of a corrupt and perpetually vile way of living in the eyes of the civilized world.

He soon realized that after fighting with his elders and endlessly arguing a viable reason to engage in piracy, his only choice would be to abandon Havana and make for New Providence. To the dismay of his family, this being his parents and brother, Thomas packed all he could carry and left during the dead of night amidst a punishing storm at the ripe age of eighteen. Thomas had been able to barter passage by means of the coin that he had stolen from his father’s safe the same night of his departure. A month from that day the ship had made landfall in Nassau. Instantaneously Thomas integrated himself into the crude etiquette of New Providence. Everyone shared the same revolting virtues and values as he. A few years had passed and still, he had not been able to find someone who was willing to take him in as a greenhorn.

That changed on an oppressively hot afternoon four summers after his arrival in July when Thomas was sitting at a table at one of the numerous taverns in Nassau when a man took a seat across from him, two mugs of rum in his hands. The frightening-looking buccaneer grinned and slid the other mug to Thomas` side.

It took a lot for Thomas to be at a loss for words, and yet this person's appearance did just that. He was rough in the face with black hair that was braided and ran down the sides of his head underneath a hat with an enormous feather in it. What Thomas had initially thought to have been other braids turned out to be cannon wire draped down to his brows. Aside from the five pistols that had been nestled in straps on the silver and black jacket of the sudden guest, his most flamboyant feature had to be, at least as Thomas saw it, the massive black beard that muzzled his face. If the immense patch of facial hair was enough to strike some sense of real fear into someone like Thomas, few could imagine the horror it bestowed upon the crew that received the misfortune of crossing paths with him.

Thomas then gathered himself and began, “I'm not much for charity, although I do appreciate the kind gesture. My name is Thomas Johnson friend, what be yours?".

 

The man finished his mug of beer in one gulp, exhaled, and began, "And here I thought a young bastard such as 'yerself would be able to recognize one of New Providence's elite instantly. What be the matter?! Too many whore mouths 'round 'yer prick? Boggling 'yer mind? The rum finally catching up?"

It was then Thomas realized the ineptitude of his ability to recognize those he should've known purely based on common description, "Well, I'll be damned, Captain Edward Teach of the  _Queen Anne's Revenge_."

The right side of Teach's lip curled ever so slightly into a smirk, "The same."

In that moment, Thomas became aware of what could become of this exchange. He hadn't the foggiest notion as to why Nassau's most feared captain decided to give him a mug of beer, and much less sit across from him to converse. Yet this was it, all that Thomas had coveted since he was young hinged on the shoulders of the man that was sitting firmly on a wooden chair directly across from him. Thomas glanced at his mug for a half-second and responded, "Cheers, then. I think I should ask why New Providence's most elite captain is exchanging pleasantries with me?"

Teach retrieved a smoke pipe from his jacket, filled it with tobacco, puffed once, and spoke, "I hear 'yer looking to sail."

"You would be correct."

"It may just so happen that I lost a crew member on my latest venture. It may just so happen that I am pressed for time as a schedule and manifest that were recovered among the valuables of my latest prize indicate that a nearby vessel is carrying a sizable treasure. It may just so happen that unlike the previous sailor, who was on the wrong side of fifty years of age, a youthful and ambitious candidate is what I have turned my attention to. And it may just so happen that you match that description most eloquently.

Thomas shifted on his feet, whilst he tried his godamned hardest to contain his excitement out of fear it that would immediately disqualify him, "You may be right. I am most earnest about stepping foot on a legitimate ship. May I ask why you seem so confident in my ability to be of any service to you, considering all you have to draw from is my physical appearance and nothing more?"

Teach then stood up, and began turn and walk away, chuckling as he did, "Meet me at the northern docks, at dawn."

Thomas' mouth dried up. He stiffened in his chair. Did someone the likes of Teach really have that much confidence in him? Surely this had to be some sick proposition that would ultimately result in embarrassment. Most of the captains Thomas had inquired during his first four years on New Providence Island blew him off instantly. There was no way Teach could have heard of him through the words of another skipper. Whatever the case, Edward Teach was offering Thomas a spot on his ship. Any prospective individual would've been erroneously fortunate to receive the same chance to sail for the very first time under someone such as Teach. Whether or not Thomas would end up another sea-rat or eventually claw his way to captaincy, (he most certainly aspired to achieve the latter of those two scenarios) he was likely going to be given the chance to sail under a mast in the Caribbean Sea. He was going to be given the chance raid and plunder. He was going to be given the chance to be a fucking pirate.

* * *

 

That had been two years ago. Thomas’ trial run had proven successful and was thus employed upon the _Queen Anne’s Revenge._ Teach soon took notice of his abilities after subduing a Spanish Man ‘O War in the Spring of 1716 and decided he would be his second protégé after the recent departure of Charles Vane.

Soon Thomas had decided he had learned all the necessary fundamentals to more confidently stride to become a successful captain, and much to the dismay of Teach, Thomas was cut loose and acquired a fair-sized vessel seized during a ship raid thirteen miles off the coast of Cat Island near Jamaica. He was instantly triumphant even in his earliest endeavors. The nature of these first few ventures maintained an adverse premise. From tracking down and taking Spanish galleons that carried hefty prizes to eliminating agent ships from England, Thomas Johnson was soon earning a reputation in Nassau and throughout the West Indies as one of the most prominent Caribbean pirates.

* * *

 

This day had been different. For once, Thomas Johnson found himself to be most conflicted and quite vexed severely. Horace Crowns, the quartermaster of _The Great White,_  stood back and observed his anxious captain pace the upper deck. It was no secret that whatever could compel Thomas to become ill-willed would do just the same for anyone acquainted with him. Never had he and his crew been sized up by another vessel or rival. Horace now knew that a test lay ahead. The only question remained; how would the skipper go about facing something of which he hadn't dealt with since securing his captaincy?

The first part of the answer to this came about fifteen minutes after Thomas halted and presumably gathered himself to an adequate extent. He turned to Horace and began with a query, “What do we know of this ship?”

Horace swallowed hard and responded, “Unknown vessel. No one yet knows the name of it. Some of the other pirates on New Providence I hear have dubbed it, _The Cameleon_. Apparently, it has been performing this practice for a considerable amount of time now. As far as I or anyone else is concerned, it’s merely a rogue, pillaging buccaneer ships as it goes. The attacks are so random and unexpected that it is almost impossible to distinguish it from the common agent ships that usually stick to a given schedule. The only perhaps discernable pattern in the attacks is that they have all taken place during the dark hours of the day. Still, too random to perhaps be any agentship.”

Thomas glanced down, “While that initially sound like a viable inference, I highly doubt any ships outside of a pirating sort should be classified as a rogue, Horace.”

Horace raised his brows, “Oh?”

“You see; I reckon rogues simply do this _shite_  for a sense of personal fulfillment or some method of payment that is not of the practical type. I think until we know what we a truly dealing with we should assume someone has taken it upon themselves to eradicate the pirates of the West Indies, and in return expects a massive payout from whoever offered the proposition in the first place. I am even considering gathering Nassau's elite.”

Horace began to chuckle softly, “So you mean to call a Brethren Court Order? You may be among the best, Thomas, but do not make the mistake by selectively forgetting that you are by no means a seasoned veteran of piracy even though I’m sure you’ve steadily convinced yourself over the past few years that it's the truth. In no way do I mean to discredit your reputation or accomplishments in this very short span since attaining your captaincy, as I’m sure you are finding that to be the case right now, but I do believe I speak accurately when I suggest that perhaps it would be better for maybe someone like Teach or Hornigold to propose a meeting of the Brethren Court.”

Thomas clenched his fists and was most irked by the commentary of someone who he had believed to think of him as the pinnacle of West Indies piracy. But the more Thomas contemplated the words from Horace, the more he had seen some sense in what the quartermaster was attempting to say. Even so, it was doubtful anyone else had witnessed what Thomas and Horace had just seen. He'd have a better story to tell and consequently more of a right than anyone to call a meeting of the Brethren Court. Thus, Thomas returned, “I suppose you are right, friend. I do think of myself as among the best, and I do think even more that the hierarchy of New Providence would be in agreement with that assertion. Yet I feel I should be the one to do this. I have this tale to tell. I seriously doubt any other pirate in the West Indies has seen what just unfolded in front of us."

"What say you, Horace? I cannot escape the feeling that unless we act fast and almost desperately, New Providence will soon be compromised. Whoever this enemy is, it has become abundantly clear that it will not stop until it sees the end of us all. We are pirates. We pillage. We steal. I fully expected to face adversity at some point in my life because of those very reasons. Yet even I could not have perceived trouble so severe and menacing. We must stop this before there are too few left to supplant  _The Cameleon_. What say you?"

Horace grinned wider than he had for an age. For the first time in all the years he'd known Thomas, even before he took command of  _The Great White_ , Horace was exhilarated to observe a flicker of maturity in the young captain, even if it wasn't overt.

"I say;  _The Cameleon_  had best watch its damned back. Yay, let us return to Nassau and inform the Brethren Court of what we know."

In the silence of the night, Thomas set a course for Nassau and began to sail for its northern docks. Never had he been more cautious while navigating the waters he had become so comfortable and familiar with.


	2. Preparatory Matters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, dear readers! The first chapter was a bit uneventful as you may have seen. Again, right now my priority remains setting the stage for the main plot of this story. Some of the Black Sails characters will begin to appear in the next chapter. Hopefully, you will find this next entry a bit more fruitful. Critique is welcome and very much appreciated. Enjoy!

As the sun just began to rise the very next day, Thomas had already been in the midst of drafting differing approaches to supplanting  _The Chameleon_. These ranged from the very plausible to the flat-out ludicrous. Horace and the first mate of the ship, William Jennings, sat with the skipper at his round table in the back part of the captain's quarters. Thomas glanced down at the list he and the other two men had compiled throughout the duration of the evening. Some involved enlisting the aid of the Brethren, some involved taking matters into solely the  _Great White's_ hands.

"Nine hours at this blasted table and we have yet to conceive any truly feasible strategy," Jennings complained.

The break in silence startled Horace and Thomas, and they glanced at each other momentarily before Thomas began to speak.

"Compromising the integrity of the Brethren's structure by trying to unite Nassau's elite could result in catastrophe on the part of our republic. If we lose our best captains in trying to eradicate this enemy, I reckon the economy of the island will suffer considerably. If we attempt to subdue  _The Chameleon_ with a full-fledged fleet, I'd also wager all the loot in my hull that the damned ship would match us with an army of its own.'

'On the other hand, if we try to approach this ourselves, even I cannot guarantee our success. This venture could very well cost us our lives. I have faced many fearsome warships over the course of the last few years, and yet there's a certain mystique about this one that leaves a grain of doubt in my mind as it pertains to the chances of our survival. That ship isn't merely built to sneak up on its targets unseen. A week ago we saw what it did when faced with resistance from another ship it was trying to take. That vessel is captained by no novice. It knew when to distance itself, it knew when to engage directly, it knew when to fire its long-nines at precisely the right moment. I am all but certain it would be the most grueling and enduring conflict I've ever experienced should we decide to confront it ourselves. It is nothing short of suicide.'

Horace inhaled a large puff from his pipe, exhaled, and replied, "A mere case of 'pick your poison'. The captains of Nassau are selfish, narcissistic, and cold, that much all three of us understand to be true, for we share in those very same characteristics. Yet it is folly to be under the assumption that they don't give a  _shite_ about the republic. Teach, I can almost be certain of, will be most interested in committing some measure of effort into this hypothetical motion. He is also the most recognizable captain in the Brethren. As someone who had as much to do with the formation of the pirate republic on New Providence Island, he  _will_ do what it takes to preserve it. Moreover, he has the capability to persuade every other captain to join the cause. It would be futile to oppose Teach. That just leaves-"

"Flint," William finished.

Horace emitted a humored hum and took another puff.

Thomas' facial scar, a most noticeable mark on the right side of his face that ran from his upper temple to the base of his jaw, pulsated profusely. He calmed his nerves at the name he had just heard mention of and began, "It is a very sad situation when one realizes that someone the likes of Flint would more than likely be uninterested in such a venture."

"Yet I would have to think he would want to do something about this, seeing as it poses an immediate threat to him," Horace argued.

"That may be, but Flint is not one to put himself in harm's way when the end result does not directly benefit him in some way," Thomas retorted.

"The execution of Alfred Hamilton was a personal vendetta. That may be true enough. Yet Flint will have to come to realize that if he is to sit back and do nothing, he can only hope that  _The Chameleon_ goes after the rest of the fleet before inevitably hunting him down. He would merely be a sitting duck, strictly prolonging certain death."

William sighed in the midst of Horace and Thomas' conversation, "Dare I say it would likely take a direct encounter with the vessel to persuade him otherwise."

The skipper and quartermaster looked at William with widened eyes. But their demeanor calmed once they understood that what William had said was nothing but the very hard truth.

"Indeed. Flint cannot be swayed through means of argumentative rhetoric. He's a man who set his ways years ago, and an unwillingness to have his mind changed is chief among them," Thomas agreed.

"Aye, 'tis blasphemy to wish danger among someone of the Brethren, but in this case, it may be the only thing that ends up convincing him to aid in the defeat of  _The Chameleon_ ," Horace added.

"Let us hope he lives to provide his efforts if indeed he happens to cross paths with the damned ship," William finished.

Not wanting to discuss Flint any further, Thomas stood and made his way for the door, "Men, have you ever seen New Bern?"

Horace furrowed his brows, "What business do we have in the Carolinas? Less than ten hours ago you instructed us to set a course for Nassau. The urgent matter at hand should have been enough to keep that plan unchanged. What have you got up those troubled sleeves of yours, captain?"

"We are to be in Nassau for an unforeseeable amount of time. That will not give us a means of keeping our eyes and ears open to gain additional intel on our enemy. Furthermore, it is a fool errand to assign any other ship in the Brethren fleet to keep track of  _The Chameleon's_ movements. That ship is a pirate hunter and a pirate hunter alone. It will not bother a privateering vessel."

Realization dawned on the faces of Horace and William.

"In what world would he ever offer his services to you," William queried with a most doubtful tone of voice.

Thomas chuckled, "He will see reason. Besides, it is not like I am inquiring the favor of a complete stranger."

"Either way, last time you saw him you were getting ready to execute your great escape. Nostalgia will not be among the emotions felt when you see him again," Horace stated.

Thomas nodded, "I am aware. I will take care of that once we arrive in New Bern. You must believe me, this is as imperative as uniting the Brethren. We cannot afford to let  _The Chameleon_ continue wandering in the shadows."

"We do believe you," both men replied.

Thomas glanced at William and Horace and then at the floor, "The men will be behind this."

William shook his head, "For as much success as we have had these past few months, it has been that amount of time that none of us have stood on dry land. Sailing to New Bern from here is another two months at least. No matter how loyal your crew may be I cannot see them agreeing to stall a return to Nassau much longer."

"The significance of this potential acquisition should outweigh their desire to be back at New Providence," Thomas returned with finality.

William grinned, patted Thomas on the shoulder and walked to the quarter doors before saying, "Then best of luck convincing them of that."

Once William returned to the deck, Horace placed his pipe on the table and faced Thomas. Thomas had discussed much with his quartermaster over the years. Yet he knew this time it would be different. From his stone face to the upright posture he presented, Horace would be doing the speaking in this instance. Thomas braced himself and finally, Horace spoke, "Your crew is as loyal as they come, captain. But ensure that this fool's errand does not end in utter disaster as I regretfully expect it to. They've been foaming at the mouth to return to Nassau for months now. Rum supply is low, pricks are dry, and I've yet to have a halfway decent meal since the last time we departed New Providence's docks. To deny them what has virtually become a promise may not help the morale, and may yet put a dent in their trust in you should you fail to achieve what you are setting out to do. Every decision you've made since becoming captain of  _The Great White_ has resulted in the accumulation of riches beyond what any of us could have imagined. A crew that looks up to you, a crew that will follow you to whatever end. But believe me, while one rash decision may seem insignificant, often it's the beginning of a gradual buildup of tension between crew and captain. Please have at least some idea of what you are doing."

A very subtle grin, but a grin that Horace took notice of nonetheless, formed on Thomas' face. For the first time since being acquainted with the rough-faced quartermaster, Thomas had been openly called out and criticized. Had this been a few years before, it is likely the skipper would have reacted in a less favorable manner. Yet here he stood, in the face of a lecture. His acceptance of such critique was a testament to his developed maturation as a captain as well as Horace's obvious concern for him. He laughed lightly as he passed Horace and made for the deck, ready to address the rest of the crew.

He turned to face Horace before opening the door and said without a trace of contriteness, "I haven't a fucking clue."

* * *

 The hearty sound of seagulls filled the air. A moderate breeze sufficiently compensated for the oppressively humid heat wave that engulfed the docks. And all the while a tall, mild-mannered privateer captain with fair facial characteristics and black hair walked from his ship in the direction of the local town bar, taking in the aesthetics as he went. After completing a long walk down the fairly short docks, the man entered the bar and immediately ordered a pitcher of heavy beer before spotting his quartermaster in a corner of the bar room and joining him at the table.

"About bloody time, was convinced you'd skip out on your regular pitcher," said Samuel McCoughin,  _The Rough Rider's_ quartermaster.

Haytham Johnson, the captain of the same vessel, took a massive swig from the pitcher before setting it down and replied, "Took longer than expected, but the manifest checks out. All cargo is accounted for. Lord knows I'll need some time to recover from that conquest. Have never seen a French ship put up such an honest fight. _Parley_ seems to be out of the question as of late."

Samuel chuckled lightly and raised his glass and met Haytham's pitcher, "Cheers, Captain. 'Twas not easy. Some casualties as well as a considerable amount of structural damage. But nothing too severe. Nothing we cannot recover from in a reasonable timeframe."

"This is the fourth inquiry this month. These vessels a becoming braver, more aggressive. Yet I cannot discern what has caused this. At any rate, North Carolina's shores have remained secure. That's all that matters to me."

"They've been secure since you arrived here," Samuel replied.

Haytham Johnson had been the captain of  _The Rough Rider_ for half a decade, a privateering ship that belonged to a colonial maritime fleet. He had come from a modest Charlestown family. His father was a reputable merchant sailor who had relocated his estate to Havana, Cuba in 1680. Haytham, his mother and younger brother easily obliged and adjusted well to the Caribbean way of life. Over the course of the next thirteen years, Haytham's father educated him well in regards to maritime work and business. Upon his father's death, Haytham was to take ownership of the family business, and perhaps most importantly, keep his reckless brother in line. Yet Thomas Johnson Sr's aspirations for his sons never came to fruition. After his younger brother left him and his parents one night, Haytham's father took to drinking and often blamed his eldest son and wife for the disappearance of his second-born. Haytham's mother died of cardiac arrest three years thereafter, and Thomas Sr. put both barrels of a shotgun in his mouth in depression.

The captain was twenty-two years of age when he witnessed the death of his parents. His parents were mourned and buried privately. Haytham then extracted what remained of his father's assets, packed all he could, and rode the cheapest stagecoach he could hire to New Bern, North Carolina. He took up a position as a privateer aboard a ship named  _The Serpent_ in 1712 after spending seventeen numbing years as a merchant vessel's quartermaster. Two years later, after turning the heads of many Carolina government officials, Haytham attained captaincy aboard  _The Rough Rider_ and never looked back. No enemy dared to trespass into the colony's waters, for the privateer captain had amassed a fearsome reputation among maritime law enforcement.

The usual crowd was present in the bar that afternoon. Drunks, beggars, whores, businessmen. The default social groups, as well as another. It caught the attention of  _The Rough Rider_ skipper. 

"Mark Giles? One of the New Providence captains?"

Samuel nodded, "Came in about an hour before you arrived. As you'd expect I initially thought he was here to conduct business with some of the _bloodsuckers,_ yet I've been told he's formally taken permanent leave from Nassau and vacated his captaincy. 'Load of  _shite_ _,_ ' I say to myself. But then I hear the same story, even from people whom I saw directly converse with the man. Says some ship dubbed ' _The Chameleon_ ' has driven him from the Caribbean according to those who spoke with him. Been taking out many pirate vessels. Some of the more elite and fearsome no less. From what I hear, Nassau's numbers are beginning to dwindle. From what I hear, the Brethren are at a crossroads in terms of what to do as it pertains to the matter."

The quartermaster leaned in closer and looked at his captain with grim eyes and an even graver facial expression, "From what I hear,  _The Great White_ may have just decided to take matters into its own hands."

Haytham's face remained devoid of any emotion. He continued to take swig after swig from his pitcher. Samuel simply observed his captain from the opposite side of the table. The captain's interest in discussing the subject suddenly put before him was nonexistent. It reminded him of the very thing he grew to resent, the very thing he refused to become.

"I cannot say that I blame you," Samuel suddenly said, breaking the silence. In an instant, the raucous sounds of the bar returned to Haytham's ears.

"What becomes of that ship is of no concern of mine. Even more, what becomes of its damned captain I could care less about if it were possible."

"What your bro-"

"I must ask that we drop this subject immediately, Samuel," Haytham impatiently pressed.

Samuel nodded in agreement.

* * *

Thomas' heart was racing. He had packed all that he could and made for one of the numerous back doors of his family's mansion. The wind was howling like a pack of a thousand wolves, thunder intermittently crashed in the sky and shook the earth beneath his feet, and the rain pounded against the roof. Thomas grinned and breathed out, "Couldn't have picked a better night."

As he carefully pushed open the door in front of him and began to head for the main docks on the northeastern shore of Havana, Thomas immediately felt the presence of someone else and turned around to face his older and only brother.

Haytham stood upright, looking quite unsurprised yet disgusted all the same. After hoping for the past thirteen years since discovering a sketch of a Jolly Roger in Thomas' journal that his brother would see reason and abandon his folly ambitions, Haytham in that moment accepted what he realized to be the inevitable. Thomas could see it in his brother's eyes.

He grinned as he finally addressed Haytham, "Here to stop me?"

Haytham's demeanor remained unchanged and empty, "I cannot hope to stop what I have accepted to be the only possible outcome of this travesty. I do not wish to keep you from pursuing something that I have no doubt will become your ultimate and eventual downfall. We gave our very best efforts to turn you astray from such a path. But since your immediate family has failed to persuade you otherwise, I see no point in attempting to stave off this certainty. Understand that I do not give a fuck about what happens to you from this point forward. Do not seek me, mother, or father out. You are entirely on your own, as you repeatedly said you wanted to be. So go ahead, make your way to New Providence Island. Sail under a captain. Gain popularity among your equally vile peers. Become a captain yourself. Pillage, burn, kill, and obliterate everything in your path. Become wealthy. Get laid on a regular basis by revolting whores. Drink an absurd amount of rum. Contract scurvy. You'll only be walking a road of certain death, no matter who much you try to convince yourself otherwise. You may form new aspirations depending on what happens, and yet they'll all gradually converge to form a road with nothing but the gallows waiting for you at its end."

Thomas' selfishness was too great, regretfully, for Haytham's parting words to have any effect. Was he not to seek his family out? Fine. It was, after all, what he wanted. He only saw them as another obstacle in his way. A bump in the road towards piracy. They meant nothing to him anymore. And he was all but sure of that notion.

He grinned and replied, "I'll keep that in the back of my mind as I lay on a pile of gold while getting my member stroked by some whores."

With that final, unbecoming remark, Thomas turned away from Haytham, his family estate, the life he knew and had grown to hate unfathomably, and vanished into the stormy night. Haytham watched Thomas disappear, exhaled deeply, returned to his bed, and slept better than he had for an age.

* * *

 

Haytham finished his pitcher, looked up at Samuel, and allowed the alcohol to get the better of him, "Do you know why I do not care about what happens to my brother?"

Samuel remained silent, predicting confidently the nature of Haytham's reasoning.

Haytham gave his quartermaster most neutral facial expression he could muster and ended, "Because he died many years ago."

* * *

 

The night was as silent as a grave. The surface of the sea was once again as flat as a floor. No fog, full moon. Perfect level of visibility.

A man stood peering through his spyglass, observing the vessel ahead of him. 

_A league and a half. At least._

The captain's ship was small and agile. Perfectly constructed for surprise attacks, yet sturdy enough to hold its own in direct conflict. Those factors would play heavily into taking this particular prize. If half the stories were true, it would take their best effort yet.

He was pulled out of his thoughts when the first mate approached him, "Are we to pursue further, captain?"

The skipper gave his first mate a nod and shouted to the rest of the crew, "Engage!"

The target obliviously moseyed its way through the water. The crew lay asleep, and only their captain and two others remained awake. They took no notice of the ship chasing them, as every source of light had been extinguished. They had no reason to be alarmed. They had downed a Spanish vessel earlier that day. They ate and drank merrily soon after. The night was silent and peaceful. All seemed well and perfectly in order.

Below the back window of the captain's quarters, inscribed in a wooden frame just above the rudder of the ship, read,  _Walrus._

 


End file.
